


What It Is To Burn

by SilverMiko



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-09-18 01:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9357590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverMiko/pseuds/SilverMiko
Summary: Permanently changed, both emotionally and physically, in the aftermath of that confrontation with the King of Hybern, Nesta Archeron soon finds she cannot ignore what is happening around her as much as she tries. That it is not ice that truly runs through her veins, but something smoldering that threatens to consume her unless she learns to adapt to her new Fae body and gifts. Cassian too has been changed, in one of the worst ways an Illyrian can be. His despair threatens to hollow him out until he withers away, unless a renewed sense of purpose can stir him from his loss.





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

  


Nesta ignored the commotion happening downstairs; exhausted from everything of the past few days, exhausted from trying to adjust to this new and alien body, and exhausted from processing it all. They were at some great hall high up full of glassless windows and yet no chill permeated the air. They had been there since they fled that vile Fae king.

And now Rhysand and the blonde Fae, the Morrigan, were arguing fiercely downstairs and her new, enhanced hearing could pick up bits and pieces. If she cared to listen, she could probably understand their entire conversation. But she did not care. Did not want to care. Their Fae drama was just that, theirs. But one piece stuck out loud and clear, the Morrigan’s voice high and on the verge of breaking, “Do you really think Cassian would want this? Do you?!”

Despite herself, she felt her interest mildly piqued at the mention of the Illyrian warrior who promised so intently to protect her, who only made half-good on that. Oh, how bitter she had felt wanting to almost believe him until she was submerged into that gods forsaken cauldron while he was splayed out in agony on the floor, wings torn to shreds. She didn’t know what was worse now; her anger or her pity.

For days, the healers had been doing what they could while he came in and out of consciousness, frantic and desperate. She’d stood outside his room exactly once, overhearing his feverish ranting and his pleas to the healers to “save them, please, save them.”

       His wings. Those large black wings that had been one more obnoxious otherworldly thing about him, soft as leather to the touch. She’d been told quickly and quietly by Rhysand that their wings were everything to an Illyrian, and so the healers worked tirelessly doing what they could.

Even of this, she was tired. It wasn’t her fight, Cassian wasn’t her family, she was not part of their court. So Nesta grabbed the pillow next to her and buried her head under it, trying desperately to block out the voices. Eventually, sleep came fitfully but never comfortable. Her skin, no longer _hers_ , grew so warm at one point she thought she’d burn up as she kicked the blankets off of her.

When morning came, she had never needed tea so desperately before in her life and hoped that the Fae, in the least, had the decency to serve t. She stumbled down the stairs, still tripping over the too long legs, wondering if her equilibrium would ever feel normal again. By the time she got to the dining area, Elain was already awake and bless her, had a pot of tea and was handing a cup to The Morrigan by the time Nesta took a seat. Elain was adjusting the best as she could by making herself useful and being the same gentle and kind person she ever was, even to these people who were partially responsible for their current misery.

Perhaps that was an unkind assignment of blame, but Nesta was past caring. Her skin still felt warm, so warm, as if the anger simmering with her could actually manifest in her blood.

The blonde Fae looked, frankly, like shit warmed over. Her face was pale; paler than it had been the last few days, and purple marred under her eyes. Her mouth was a thin line, and she looked ready to cry at any moment.

No, more like someone who _had_ been crying and was desperately trying to get themselves collected.

Elain quietly put a cup of tea before Nesta and she mumbled a thanks, not even waiting for it to cool before taking a long sip. She hated to admit it, but the tea was excellent. Far better than the mismatch of herbs and flowers they used to boil in a sad attempt to pretend what they were drinking was anything but the taste of poverty. When they had come into that fortune months before, the first thing she had bought was boxes and boxes of real tea leaves. No more twigs from the woods.

“Good morning, Rhysand,” Elain called out with a soft smile, as the High Lord of the Night Court walked to the table as pale as his cousin, with the same look as hers.

This wasn’t just the same frantic distress that had permeated the house since their return as they tended to their wounded. This was more.

Rhysand shot a pointed look at his cousin, and Nesta didn’t miss the brief grimace before she stood.

“Elain, Nesta, I think it might do us ladies some good to get out of the hall for a bit. We need some things at the market and I think it’s time you saw something more than just the mountain tops. Shall we go?”

The attempt of a smile on The Morrigan’s face cemented it, something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Nesta turned to Elain, who was looking to her for approval. If Nesta said the word, Elain would remain. And yet…

“I have no interest in going anywhere at the moment. But Elain, you go. Some fresh air will do you good.”

“Are you sure?”

Nesta nodded and went back to drinking her tea, putting on every air of disinterest. Luckily, it wasn’t a hard pretense for her.

The Morrigan looked to Rhysand for a moment, frantic, but he just shook his head and indicated for her to go.

“Then we shall return in a bit,” the blonde said, leading Elain out but not before pausing to squeeze Rhysand’s hand.

Once she was sure they had left, Nesta wheeled her gaze to the High Lord, who stared at his hands on the table.

“Why did you want us out of here this morning?”

He sighed, not looking at her.

“Because Cassian is about to wake up.”

She stirred the small spoon in her tea, arching an eyebrow.

“One would think that would make you lot more pleased.”

“Everything has a price, Nesta,” Rhysand said quietly, standing slowly and walked out of the room.

Her brows furrowed. Were they always so melodramatic, this Night Court? If Cassian was waking up, he’d probably be his too arrogant, too mouthy self in no time. It was the other one, Azriel, who had yet to wake up as he healed, that they ought to wring their hands over. Not the big Illyrian who would probably punch Death in the face for trying to even bother and laugh while doing so.

It was these sharp, prickly thoughts she clung to; hoping they’d smother the growing tendril of concern taking root within her and spiraling bigger.

What did she care anyway? These were not her friends, least of all _him_. He was just another arrogant Fae male who’d been a pain in her ass since their eyes met, who made grand, brave promises, who was far too big, far too sure of himself, and far too keen to invade her personal space on the occasion.

Before her thoughts could walk down that particularly memory again, a moment in time she willed herself to not think of when her mind slid back into that room with just him and her, a roaring sound filled the air so loud and she jumped and almost knocked her cup over. The whole house began to rattle as the roaring continued and it took her a moment to overcome the sudden shock of the noise to realize, with dawning horror, who it was coming from.

She barely recalled jumping to her feet or dashing through the room and up the stairs before she was bursting through the door frame of Cassian’s room and stopping herself just past the edge of the doorway. Rhysand was against the wall opposite of the bed, so still as if he were stuck in place, with tears pouring silently down his face. And on the bed…

Her hand itched to fly to her mouth, her jaw longing to fall open. But with a composure of steel, save for the noticeable widening of her eyes, Nesta looked on as Cassian was caught in a fit of pure rage and despair as the bedclothes between his clenched fists tore apart. Looked at the wide swath of new bandages wrapped around his back, _flatly_ against his back.

 _‘Everything has a price_.’

She slid her gaze back to Rhysand, the most powerful High Lord to ever exist, looking anything but.

What a fucking awful price, indeed.

Nesta took a steadying breath, willed that careful mask of indifference to return and marched to bed, raised her hand, and smacked the Cassian soundly across the face.

The shaking stopped, the roaring silenced, and for a brief moment as he turned his mad, frantic eyes on her she wondered if he would strike her back. Instead he was still, gaze burning into hers and she scowled at what lay behind those hazel eyes: the brokenness and emptiness.

“Stop it, you big Illyrian baby! Be grateful you’re alive,” she murmured, instilling as much ice as she could in her voice.

“Nesta,” Rhysand began, edging away from the wall, eyes narrowing at her. She didn’t care what he had to say, didn’t care if he wanted to murder her in that very moment.

She was so sick of their Fae bullshit.

Glaring back down at Cassian, she drew her face closer as she crossed her arms over her chest, “Having a temper tantrum won’t give you your wings back, so knock it off. You want to rage at something? Save it for that bastard who did this to you, to us. Put your money where that giant, loud mouth of yours is. Make Hybern pay,” she spat out.

He glared back at her, his lips parting as if to reply, but then everyone around her went dark. Night surrounded her and then somehow she was in the hallway, the door to Cassian’s room slammed shut as the night around her dissolved and the cold, muted sunlight filled the hall. Rhysand stood before her, hands in his pockets and wearing his own mask of bored detachment. Nesta was sure behind that neutral facade he was furious.

“You know, Nesta, you _really_ are a delight.”

She shrugged, standing her ground.

“Did you expect me to coddle him?”

“You mean expect basic compassion from you? I suppose not, having figured that out within minutes of first meeting you. But for a moment I let myself almost believe you’d put your cruel tongue aside for once. Do you have any idea what he’s lost? Wings are everything to Illyrians.”

“And yet, you still made the choice, didn’t you?”

“It was his wings or death,” Rhysand snarled ever so softly.

“And what will you do when that stubborn fool decides he’d rather die? At least perhaps now he has something to focus his despair on so that maybe, just maybe, he’ll bother to be useful.”

He arched an eyebrow at her, chuckling mirthlessly.

“Oh Nesta, you are going to make such an excellent High Fae.”

Something in her cracked at that remark, and she could feel something in her flare sharply. She clenched her fists tightly, pressing her mouth into a grim line.

“You really are an asshole.”

He shrugged.

“Feyre would agree with you on that. And when she gets back from her little visit to the Spring Court, she ought to work with you so you don’t end up setting the house on fire.”

“What?” Nesta asked, confused.

Rhysand motioned his head towards her hands and Nesta looked down in surprise at the tendrils of smoke rising from her fists. She unclenched her hands and brushed them against her dress as if it was dust she could simply brush off.

“Interesting,” Rhysand murmured, turning away and going back into Cassian’s room, shutting the door behind him.

Nesta remained in the hallway, looking at her hands.

For a moment, she wanted to rage as loud and hard as Cassian had before. And in that moment, she finally understood. Was his despair not a mirror to hers? Forever changed, a body permanently altered. The awful, gaping sense of loss for who they once were?

She locked herself up in her room for the rest of the day, ignoring Elain’s gentle queries.

As she sat by the window staring at the snowy peaks of the  mountains, Nesta never thought she’d long for the paltry makeshift tea and the drafty cottage that had been the touchstones of her previous, small life. Now, the world was too  wide and too big.

But she would go on, she would survive. Because, if anything, she refused to let that idiot Illyrian make her feel like a hypocrite.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the stubborn have fallen.

Chapter 2

 

He knew he was being difficult, but he honestly didn’t give a shit. Mor’s overly-pleasant tone annoyed him, and Rhys’ too-gentle approach infuriated him. It was as if they were confirming the very thing eating away at his soul: you are now less than, you are inferior, you are weak.  
What good was an Illyrian without wings?  
At first, he wanted to die. He had catalogued every item in his room that could aide in ending his life, but he didn’t. Maybe it was pride, or the desire to not let the enemy defeat him entirely, but he knew it was also that even in death he’d never hear the end of it from Nesta Archeron. And he would never see his High Lady ruling and truly happy. He would not be with his family anymore. And so Cassian endured, but not easily. If recovery were a straight line upwards he could cope better, but it wasn’t. It twisted and rose and fell and there were good days where he could try walking a bit and getting used to it again sans wing, and there were the bad days when he stumbled and felt like absolutely nothing. A hollow shell being treated with kid gloves because he was less than now.  
Everyone except Nesta, of course, who acted like he was merely a spoiled brat throwing a tantrum. Even if he was, he didn’t care. He was forever changed, permanently maimed, and she could get right the fuck off her high horse if she thought he would apologize for it. It burned him, her attitude, because she of all people should have understood what he was going through and they had certainly been accommodating her own ice-queen version of a tantrum. Why did he have to go and pick such a stubborn woman to feel such a powerful attraction to?  
‘Because, you idiot, you love the iciness masking the fire within. You want nothing more than to see it explode,’ his mind whispered.   
But that was before, and he had no idea what to do with even his strange fascinated with the girl-turned-Fae. She may have permitted him a few stolen kisses in that heated moment not long ago, but why would she give him the time of day now that he could barely even stand up straight? Perhaps that was why he hadn’t seen her since the day he awoke.   
Christ, he wish Azriel was awake to talk to. He never thought he would ever wish more than anything to still have Az to complain to, when there was still a chance he never would be able to listen again. It was another reason for Mor to stop fussing over Cassian, she had other things to worry about and it was obvious she did. After this, the three of them could never go back to how it was. He hoped she knew it, he hoped Az would be alive to realize it; he couldn’t be their buffer anymore. Whatever it was between they needed to sort it out. Life was too short even for them, and it didn’t care how good or bad one was. With so many things unsaid between them, it would crush Mor entirely. Everyone knew it but wasn’t saying it.   
He sincerely hoped he lived long enough to see his High Lady bury a knife so far into Hybern’s chest that even his ghost roasting in Hell would still feel it.

***

Even in sleep, Nesta found little peace. It was as if all her emotions were a whirlwind tearing apart and consuming everything in sight, until everything blazed scarlet-orange. She could see Feyre, otherworldly and alien in her Fae body, paralyzed in shock. That fucking bastard Hybern gloating. Mor and Azriel in pain, Cassian’s wings torn to shreds, and Elain...and Elain crying…  
She howled from within the whirlwind, releasing everything she had kept tightly under lock and key in her mind. The pain, the sorrow, the misery, the anger; it raged forward hotter and hotter.  
“Nesta!”  
Someone calling her, male. She didn’t care. They could go hang.  
Something gripped her shoulders hard, but she roared and it was only when something cracked and struck at her face that the whirlwind stopped and her eyes opened. She woke up, cheek stinging, as Cassian stood over her wide-eyed and alarmed.  
It took a long moment later to realize why. The bedding around her was singed and smoke literally rose from her, smoldering. Had she done that?   
She took a breath, heart hammering, and buried her face in her hands.  
“Fucking Fae body,” she murmured miserably.  
“Of course it would be fire for you,” Cassian replied, half-sitting on her bed when it was clear he couldn’t support his weight on his feet any longer, “Luckily I know a thing or two about that sort of magic.”  
She dropped her hands to her lap, looking out the window as the stars still twinkled in the sky. It was still night.  
“And they decided you should come to the rescue?”  
“Mor isn’t here right now and Rhys sleeps like the dead. I could smell the fire, so what else was I supposed to do? Let you roast like a fine pheasant?”  
She glared at him.  
“Perhaps. At least then I’d be done with this waking nightmare my life has become.”  
Whatever lightness held in his expression dropped, his face growing grim.  
“Don’t you fucking dare, Nesta. Do you know what it’s like to truly contemplate that?”  
“Don’t I?” she said, eyes narrowing.  
It was a while before he spoke again and did something other than stare at her so hard she thought his eyes might actually pierce into her.  
“Aren’t we a pair, then? The reluctant Fae and the bastard, broken Illyrian. Hybern should have put us both out of our misery and save us the trouble.”  
And then, Nesta growled. Actually growled.  
“You are not broken. You are an idiot, far too cocky, and are awful at keeping your promises, but you are far from broken and if you’re going to sit here and spew that bullshit you can get off my bed, get out of this room, and never speak a word to me again.”  
The intensity of her words startled even her. Why did she care so much anyway? She shouldn’t, and it surprised her that the words came so fast and strong. He was far too big and brash, he didn’t keep his word to her...but he had tried. And it had cost him so much when for all her pomp and pretense about his promises he truly owed her nothing. At first she had thought it was some misguided loyalty for Feyre, but it wasn’t. He had made the promise to protect directly to her, for her, not her sister.   
Perhaps he was better off not bothering, but they were so far past that now.   
“If I’m not broken, neither are you. We can’t let them win, Nesta, not Hybern, that prick Tamlin, any of them.”  
“So what do we do then, Cassian?”  
“The only thing we can do right now, survive. And you need to learn to control those powers, because this isn’t a fight you can sit on the sidelines for anymore.”  
No, she couldn’t, and she hated that he was right. She wanted her shabby little cottage in the woods right now so much it hurt.  
“And how do I do that?”  
“By learning from the only teacher that wouldn’t want to knife you in your sleep for your mouth.”   
“And who is that?” she asked, crossing her arms.  
For the first time in a long time, she saw him grin.


End file.
